


How Lucky We Are to Be Alive Right Now

by ClearEyes95



Series: How Lucky We Are To Be Alive Right Now [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Afterlife, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Mexican Revolution Background, Some Domestic Violence, tags will change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 16:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClearEyes95/pseuds/ClearEyes95
Summary: “¿Qué?” Héctor whispered, eyes widening, mouth falling open. He was expecting bad news, but this was… this was…Or, Héctor finds out he will become a father.





	How Lucky We Are to Be Alive Right Now

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea for a series of one-shots or shot stories. Comment if you know where the title comes from.  
> I am Mexican, I am a native Spanish speaker, so I claim creative liscence in my use of the language. At the end I will translate some phrases to the best of my ability or give he equivalent idiom in English.  
> The only thing is: I am from the north of Mexico, so if you find a better idiom that belongs to the south of Mexico, let me know.  
> Enjoy!

How Lucky We Are to be Alive Right Now

_Year: 1914_

Héctor Rivera came home long after the sun had set after a day of hard work in the fields of Don Antonio. He expected his house to be quiet and dark, for Imelda, his wife, must have been sleeping. Instead, what he found was Imelda sitting at their small kitchen table nursing a cup of warm liquid, probably tea, that steamed slowly in the soft glow of two candles. He walked slowly towards her, clearing his throat softly as to not startle her. Imelda turned her fierce eyes on him, silently reproaching.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Héctor apologized in a whisper, more because it seemed appropriate than to avoid waking people up, “Don Antonio wanted to finish putting up that fence today.”

Imelda sighed, losing her stoic expression and leaving a tired one instead. She knew that Héctor had taken up the job at the hacienda in order to support the family he was starting, so she couldn’t blame him.

“It’s okay,” she said after a minute or two while Héctor poured himself a cup of tea from the remaining water in the kettle and took a seat in front of her, “how was your day, mi amor?”

She looked tired, Héctor mused. He shrugged.

“The usual,” he answered with a very noncommittal sound, “The revolution keeps dragging the workers away, so our job has tripled in the past month or so. Is… everything okay?”

Imelda cleared her throat and looked away.

“I wasn’t feeling well today,” when Héctor opened his mouth to speak, she silenced him with a glare, “So I went to the dispensario, and…”

Héctor waited for her to continue, hoping that the nurse at makeshift, so-called clinic hadn’t found cólera, or tifus, or some of those nasty diseases he’d be witness to during his time in the revolutionary army. He watched his wife take a deep breath and square her shoulders, the way she would before facing their irascible landlord.

“I’m pregnant.”

“¿Qué?” Héctor whispered, eyes widening, mouth falling open. He was expecting bad news, but this was… this was…

Imelda stuck out her chin, and stared at him with an unspoken challenge, before she repeated.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Really?” Héctor’s face broke into a toothy grin.

Now, Imelda was looking at him with caution. She answered slowly.

“That’s what the nurse said.”

The silence was shattered like glass by the loudest mariachi grito Héctor had ever produced in his life. He grabbed Imelda’s hands, pulled her out of her seat and right into his arms before starting to dance a very energized polka norteña in the middle of their kitchen. Her feet fell immediately in rhythm with his, the way they did after years of practice together.

“We’re going to be parents!” he exclaimed, picking up the pace, unsurprised that his wife was more than able to keep up. He spun her around then, and when she returned to the original position, she had a frown marring her beautiful features, a crease between her eyebrows, “What’s wrong?”

“You won’t yell at me?” Imelda asked softly, a tad of confusion in her tone. Héctor felt appalled, and he hoped he was showing enough outrage in his expression to calm his wife’s worries.

“I would never, mi amor, why would you think that?”

Imelda looked away, never breaking the pace of their dance, and he used the opportunity to spin her again before pulling her back in. He saw the answer in her guarded expression and stoic face, how she was trying to put on a brave face.

Suddenly, he understood.

The first time Héctor had set eyes on his beautiful wife, he’d been passing with the revolutionary army through a small village south of Mexico City on their way to Oaxaca. She was in the market selling far-from-fresh fruit, but with the current conditions of the country, it was a privilege that they even had that. He bought an apple with the excuse of talking to her. She had been stiff, business like, a young woman with sharp features who didn’t have time to deal with nonsense. He tried, boy did he try, to woo her then, but she replied with stony indifference.

The rest of his mismatched unit laughed at him, and they continued on their way. A few months later, he’d been injured on the battlefield and the closest medical center was located in that village, el dispesario de la iglesia. So, he was bedridden for two weeks, confined to the village for a month, and in the end discharged because he wasn’t apt anymore to fight in the revolution. Imelda’s older sister was a volunteer at the small makeshift village and had tended to him a couple of times, so Héctor had had the honor to see Imelda when she brought her food.

Maybe she took pity on him, the only soldier who didn’t seem to receive visitors, or maybe she was intrigued by his story, for one day she approached him and gave him a torta. She didn’t say anything, just left it there on the bedside wooden table. She was about to leave, and he couldn’t have that, so he started talking… babbling really. The point was that he managed to catch her attention for more than five minutes and, after that, she would come sit by his side an hour or two a day and they would talk. If she was in a bad mood, she would bring something to read and they would remain silent.

One day, around the time he was finally allowed to get off the bed, he was helping him walk around the small room filled with cots, and other injured patients when she opened up to him and told him her story. By this time, she already knew all there was to know about him. Héctor found out that her mother had died when she was ten, and she didn’t mention her father much, just that he liked to drink in the cantina. Her sister and her took turns selling on the market and in their free time, apparently, they volunteered at the dispensario.

That was also the first time he heard her sing.

Héctor didn’t like to boast, but he was good with the guitar. The next time she came, he’d managed to get a borrowed guitar and they spent the afternoon singing duets of their favorite songs. The injured, and even uninjured people, had gathered around them to listen to the beautiful couple singing for the ill. After that, he began to seriously court her. He insisted on meeting her father to ask for her blessing, but she always pushed it off.

When the general of his unit told him that he didn’t have to return to the battlefield, he was well enough to walk on his own, and the only reason he remained at the dispensario was because he had no other place to stay. He went to Imelda’s house because he wanted to deliver the good news himself, as quickly as possible, but when he got there he had to double check to make sure it was the right one. From the inside he could hear horrible yelling from a clearly drunk man, as well as crystal shattering. Fearing for Imelda’s life, he had barged in to find her cowering in the corner, tears shinning in her eyes, and a deep cut on her upper arm caused by a broken bottle that the furious man was wielding against his daughter.

“What is the meaning of this?!” the man had yelled at him, “¿Quién eres tú cabrón?”

Héctor didn’t answer, but took a couple of second to observe the scene. He could see Imelda’s sister deadly pale and bleeding on the floor next to Imelda, he could see the way her father’s eyes were dilated and wide, face red with rage; he also noticed the blood dripping from Imelda’s arm and her eyes, also wide, but with fear. He saw her shake her head at him, telling him to go, but he resolutely ignored her. He saw the man lunge for him, and he dodged. The man, inebriated as he was, tripped on his own feet and hit his head against the stone wall, hard enough to hear the crack of his skull crushing, before he slumped lifeless on the ground.

There was a minute of complete silence.

Then a sob.

Héctor rushed to Imelda’s side, zeroing in on her wound.

“Idiota,” she said, tears and snot sliding down her face, “eres un idiota. You could have died.”

“So could you,” Héctor told her, a seriousness in his face and in his voice that she had never seen before, “how long as he been beating you and your sister?”

“My sister,” Imelda then said weekly, “We need to take her to the nurse. She was injured worse than me.”

“Imelda, we will, but answer the question,” Héctor commanded, and he saw her features harden.

“Since my mother died.”

“Did your mother died by your father’s hand?” he followed up, and Imelda was quick to shake her head no.

“My father wasn’t like this when my mom was alive. He loved us. But then my mom caught cólera, and she passed away. In his grief, my dad resorted to alcohol, and became a violent person,” the distraught teen explained. Héctor sighed deeply.

“Let’s go, we need to take your sister, and yourself, al dispensario,” he said, helping Imelda stand up on shaky legs. When he was sure she wasn’t going to fall over, he went to carry the unconscious María and together they walked the quiet streets, attracting pitying glances from the villagers.

Everyone knew, and nobody did anything.

When the nurse asked what happened, Imelda explain curtly that her father broke a bottle of beer on her sister’s head. Further examination revealed a deep wound on the side of María’s neck. The nurse did whatever she could with such limited circumstances and equipment, but the next day María stopped breathing at noon without opening her eyes once.

Héctor helped Imelda with the funeral arrangements. It was a very simple affair, with only some close friends and other volunteers from the dispensatory, but elegant and respectful. Imelda didn’t cry in front of the people. She was stoic and quiet. She had cried all her tears the night before on Héctor’s shoulder. Her father was buried in a common, unmarked grave.

After the funeral ended, as Imelda and Héctor stared silently at the grave of an innocent, he delivered the news he never did that day.

“The general told me I am not fit to fight in the revolution anymore,” he said softly, “I’ve been released.”

Imelda gave a curt nod.

“So you’ll leave,” she said, “okay.” She turned on her heel sharply, intent on leaving the cemetery, but Hector grabbed her hand before she could.

“Come with me,” he said, “you have nothing else in this town. Come with me to Santa Cecilia.”

“Why?” Imelda asked in a low voice.

“Because I want you to meet my family. I want to marry you,” Héctor said, staring at Imelda’s back with growing trepidation.

Imelda turned towards him suddenly, her chin sticking out and her eyes challenging.

“Do you mean it?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered.

“Okay then,” she replied, and then shook off his hand and left the cemetery with a resolute pace.

“Okay? What does that mean?” Héctor asked, hurrying after her.

“Si me quiero casar contigo.”

Héctor’s smile was enough to blind the sun.

They finished their dance in the middle of their kitchen with a resounding zapatazo, his arms wrapped around her, their noses almost touching. That had been almost two years ago, in the winter of 1913. He broke the pose and grabbed her shoulders gently. Both of them were panting slightly, and Imelda’s cheeks were red.

“I will never be like that man,” Héctor assured his wife. Imelda’s eyes lost some of their edge, “I am unbelievably happy to hear that you’re pregnant. A baby is more than welcome in this house.”

“But what about the money?” Imelda asked with a slight tremor in her voice that she tried to hide. She would die before admitting how much she’d needed to hear those exact words.

“Money comes and goes, mi amor,” Héctor replied simply, with a shrug, “with all the workers leaving the hacienda, I could try to ask Don Antonio to become his capataz. He trusts me enough. If that doesn’t work, I can always go play at the cantina.”

Imelda made a disdainful gesture.

“You know I hate it when you to that place,” she said.

“I know, but they pay well, and you know I never drink,” he argued.

“Even so, it’s full of tramps,” she retorted. Héctor sighed.

“It’s okay, mi amor, we talk about this later. First, I’m going to ask Don Antonio, está bien?”

“Está bien,” Imelda nodded, “Now let’s go to bed, I’m tired.” Héctor laughed and reached out to pinch his wife’s butt, she turned with a sly smirk. “I’m already pregnant, Héctor.”

He cupped her cheek and gave her a kiss.

“Does it matter?”

“Not really,” she answered, “but with that smell, you’re lucky I’m even letting you sleep on the bed.”

“Hey!”

Imelda laughed, finally allowing herself to be happy, now that her worries had been put to rest. Héctor laughed with her, following her into the bedroom and locking the door behind them. In the kitchen, the cups of tea laid abandoned and unfinished as the candle finished consuming itself.

**Author's Note:**

> Mi amor = My love.  
> Está bien = Okay.  
> I´m sorry if I missed any. Please, comment and I'll add them.


End file.
